A Tension to Sound

Pricked
my climbing axe
in climax
to maximize
our height
since
your
high horse
is either
dying or
forgetting how you
look in hindsight.

A hapless hunt
between
lions and
ducks
happenstance
haphazardly delayed;

with the
hypocrisy of hypo
chondriacs we tipped our
hats to the
horrors we pretended to
be,
wheeled
past our idols in a
falsified
struggle to
breathe.

Far as knees grow (oh dear, said another way would have proposed something bigoted) I’m complicit in this kitchen of overcooked correctness, perfected for spoiled appetites as we twist knives in heightened stakes.

I’ve lived between the syllables
long enough,
and the
politics
of playing dumb have worn me like
a straitjacket,

giving padded walls
the wait of
guns,
blood-brain exodus
in touch with
a tension
to sound beating our
brow with
attention our
sweat never received.

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